


If I Have a Bad Dream

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Bathing, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling, Daddy!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, M/M, Mild Angst, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Platonic Cuddling, Pouting, Teddy Bears, blankie, clingyness, little!sherlock, mostly comfort, naps, non sexual infantilism, sippy cups, sulky Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though they're in a relationship, John knows that Sherlock still has a hard time coping with emotions. And when something really bad happens, like John having a closing brush with death, sometimes it's easier for Sherlock to work through it in his little headspace with the support of his daddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Have a Bad Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission requested by [rebornparanoia](http://rebornparanoia.tumblr.com/), who wanted an age play fic where little!Sherlock was in need of comfort after something [almost] happened to John.

It was cold. That was really the first thing that John registered. His head still felt a little fuzzy, but when his ears finally made out the sound of Sherlock's voice, he forced his eyes to open. The individual words were a blur, but he could pick out the low, forced tones that meant Sherlock was worried. Or scared. Both were more than enough to get rid of the lingering confusion and he pushed away the pain in his head and hands, knowing he needed to focus on what was happening.

He was sitting on the roof of a tall building, most likely a warehouse, and there was a gun not two inches from his face. His hands and feet were bound with handcuffs. About ten feet away, just close enough to be able to speak without shouting, was Sherlock. He had his hands up in the air in a non-threatening position, and he kept looking from John to the man with the gun. Man with a - no, his name was Trapper and they had been hunting him for the past three days, after he raped and killed a girl.

Sherlock tensed a little when he realized that John was looking at him and deliberately raised his voice to keep Trapper's attention. "As I said, you can walk away right now. Scotland Yard is still ten minutes out. That's plenty of time to make a clean getaway; I'll even provide you a way out of town."

"Why should I bother?" Trapper demanded. "You think you're so great, Holmes. Bloody detectives. If you had just minded your business, none of this would have happened. Think about that next time, would you?" His fingers flexed on the grip of the gun, and for a split second John thought that he was going to be shot for a second time in less than three years.

But there was no crack to signify a gunshot, no burning pain in his chest or head: just a shorter, sharper ache that exploded through his right shoulder and shoved him hard. John felt himself falling backwards with the force of the blow and realized, with a distant jolt of alarm, that there was nothing behind him to stop his fall. Nothing except the ground, which was a good four stories down. He heard Sherlock screaming his name.

The impact came much sooner than he expected. John was left gasping for breath, his heart racing so hard he felt sick, lungs seizing up. His whole right side ached from the landing. He opened his eyes, wondering how he was still alive, and found himself looking out at the air. A balcony. He'd landed on a balcony. Not a useless warehouse after all. The urge to laugh swept over him so quickly that he had to bite his lip to stop it, refusing to give in to hysteria until after he'd made sure that Trapper was taken down.

He took several slow, deep breaths, and as he did the ringing in his ears translated to something the rest of the world could hear as well. Several police cars roared into the parking lot, screeching to a stop within inches of each other. John stared down at them dumbly as officers began popping out. He felt like he should be doing something more useful than that, but his side throbbed with renewed pain when he tried to move.

Sally Donovan was the first to spot him. She pointed at him and said something to Lestrade, who made a dash for the entrance to the building. John closed his eyes briefly against the sickly combination of relief and lingering fear, then pushed himself up into a sitting position. When the door burst open a couple of minutes later, it was Donovan who dropped down beside him and unlocked the cuffs. He stretched his arms and legs gingerly.

"Dare I ask how you got down here when Holmes is on the roof?" she asked.

John gave her a smile, though it probably came across as a grimace. "Let's put it this way. I took the quickest way down."

She winced. "You two never do anything by half, do you?"

"Guess not." He got up slowly, bracing himself against the rail of the balcony, which was much closer than he was comfortable with. Another few inches and he would've hit the rail on the way down or missed the balcony entirely. He couldn't suppress a shudder as he turned away, following Donovan into the room and up to the roof.

It was a different scene that John walked in on. Trapper was in custody, down on his knees with his hands cuffed, secure between three officers. A fourth was speaking to him in low tones. Lestrade was talking to Sherlock, who broke away from the detective the second he spotted John. In a handful of long steps, Sherlock crossed the distance between them. He stopped much closer to John than he usually did, his hands coming up to seize John by the shoulders. 

"John," he whispered, and bound up in that single word was all of the terror that Sherlock had been feeling ever since John was pushed off the roof.

"It's okay," John said quietly, glad when Donovan walked off a few steps to give them a bit of privacy. But he was still very aware of the fact that they were surrounded by people they worked with. He settled for resting a light hand on Sherlock's hip. "I'm fine. I landed on a balcony. I've got a few bruises, nothing more."

"Nothing broken?"

John shook his head. Beyond a lingering soreness that would turn into a deep ache and vivid bruises with time, he'd been lucky. "I'm okay," he repeated, and Sherlock let out a shaky breath. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. The tension in his body spoke volumes, not to mention the force of his grip on John's shoulders. 

Lestrade walked over to join them a moment later and Sherlock stepped back hastily, hands falling to his sides. There was an apologetic look on Lestrade's face when he said, "I need to get your statements. Sorry, but we don't want to waste time getting this guy in."

"It's not a big deal," John reassured him, shooting Sherlock a worried look. Donovan came over and he gave her the best statement that he could, though much of what happened since the last time he'd spoken to Sherlock and woken up on the roof was a blur. He was told that Trapper had drugged him and that Scotland Yard had been looking for him for the better part of two hours. The thought of how frantic Sherlock must have been during that time did not sit well.

"Do you want to see the paramedics?" Donovan asked when they were finished, flipping her notebook shut. She knew better than to ask whether or not he wanted to go to A&E, since the answer would have been a resounding no.

"I'm fine, really. Got a few bumps and bruises, but nothing worse than that," John reassured her. It was the truth. His head ached a bit, but he was positive he didn't even have a concussion, and the remaining effects of whatever drug Trapper had given him had been neutralized by the adrenaline of falling off the roof. All he wanted now was to get Sherlock and go home for a while.

Fortunately Donovan understood and backed off without argument. Lestrade finished up with Sherlock a couple of minutes later and gave them both permission to leave. Sherlock was quiet on the cab ride home. John watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering how best to handle the situation. He might have been the one that had faced a near death experience, but Sherlock had never been good at dealing with any kind of emotion. And John knew that this, the fear of seeing a loved one die, was one of the worst.

The silence remained heavy as John paid the cabbie and followed Sherlock up the stairs to their flat. As he closed the door and took his jacket off, he tried to think of what to say. Any reassurance that he was fine would fall on deaf ears, he was sure. But it didn't feel right not to try. He picked up the coat that Sherlock had discarded on the floor and hung it up before he cleared his throat.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock grunted, which could have been anything from agreement to a confirmation that he was dying. Since there was no blood and Lestrade had allowed them to leave without argument, John took it as the former. He watched helplessly as Sherlock stalked into his former bedroom and pointedly closed the door behind him. When they'd first begun dating, they had agreed that Sherlock's old bedroom would become a sort of laboratory where he could feel free to do experiments in private. 

For the first time, John regretted his promise to not enter the bedroom unless Sherlock gave him permission to do so. He had the feeling he wouldn't be granted right now. With a weary sigh, he went into the loo and got undressed. A quick glance into the mirror showed numerous bruises all along the right side of his body that were already deepening into purple and black. Come morning he would be stiff, but a hot shower and a couple of painkillers might ward off the worst of it.

He took his time in the shower, feeling no need to rush since Sherlock likely wouldn't emerge from his bedroom until morning, and only climbed out when the water began to run cold. He felt marginally better as he dried off. He wrapped a towel around his waist, paused in the kitchen long enough to swallow a couple of paracetamol, and then went up to bed. Despite everything that had happened, it took him no time at all to fall asleep.

At some point during the night, the bed - a larger bed than the one Mrs Hudson had initially provided with the flat, because Sherlock tended to either sleep like a clingy octopus or like a sheet stealing starfish - sank beside him and he was vaguely aware of Sherlock squirming around in a bid to get comfortable. John reached out and groped around until he found Sherlock's hand, giving it a rough squeeze before he fell back asleep.

The second awakening was much less pleasant.

A shrill scream split the air, jolting John out of a deep sleep. He snapped upright, fumbling for the gun he usually kept on the nightstand, only to realize that the source of the scream was Sherlock. His lover was curled up on his side in a small ball, and it was truly amazing how tiny someone as tall as Sherlock could look. John's heart pounded against his ribs as he reached out and snapped a lamp on.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked frantically.

The only response he got was the soft, familiar sound of Sherlock sobbing. John leaned closer to him, wincing as the pain in his body made itself known. He couldn't help wondering if he had missed some sort of injury last night. Maybe he should have insisted on examining Sherlock more closely: the man had, after all, been alone with Trapper on the roof for at least five to seven minutes, and it wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had concealed an injury.

But when he carefully touched Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock rolled over to stare up at him with glassy blue-grey eyes. Another choked sob escaped him, right on the heels of a hushed, "D-Daddy?"

Oh. John sat back a bit, rubbing his eyes with one hand, understanding slamming into him as hard as the balcony floor had earlier. He should have seen this coming. How had he missed it? He forced his voice to remain level. "It's okay, sweetie. Daddy's right here. I'm here and I'm fine. See?" He held out a hand.

Sherlock whimpered when he touched John's hand, his fingers trembling badly. "You were... you were _dead_..."

"No, love, no. That was just a nightmare. I'm fine." John scooted closer, pulling Sherlock into his arms. Sherlock's arms wound around him in a desperate grip as he started to cry again, and it hurt because he was pressing against the bruises, but John didn't dare to shift him.

It was unusual for Sherlock to slip into his little headspace when he wasn't sick or injured. Normally the two of them worked out scenes beforehand. John closed his eyes, thinking back over Sherlock's earlier behaviour. His standoffishness. His silence. His retreat. Apparently adult Sherlock couldn't handle what had happened, or needed comfort he could never ask for. He tried not to think about how sad that was, instead focusing on gently rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back.

"You fell and you were dead," Sherlock wept, his whole body shaking from the force of his tears. 

"Daddy's right here. I'm okay. Daddy's here. It's okay," John repeated, keeping his voice as calm and even as possible, hoping that sooner or later the words would get through and sink in. He kept on rubbing Sherlock's back, tracing the thin points of his spine, as Sherlock cried against his shoulder. 

In all the years they had lived together, he had never seen Sherlock this upset. Since they'd started with the age playing, he'd cried a few times. But never like this. This was an uncontrollable flood of tears that had Sherlock practically choking at times, hardly able to catch his breath because he was crying so hard. His fingers were digging into John's skin, like he thought John might slip away if he didn't hold on tight.

The faintest rays of sunlight, a rare bright morning in London, were kissing the edge of the windowsill by the time Sherlock's tears finally slowed. It wasn't because he had calmed down, but because he was so exhausted that he couldn't sob anymore. For the first time since making the acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes, John was actually thankful that the man took such shoddy care of himself. It had been days since Sherlock had slept properly. John gently shifted them both around and then laid down, bringing Sherlock with him. He used his foot to pull the blanket higher, until he could snag it with his hand and tuck it up around their shoulders. 

Sherlock sniffled against his shirt, giving a faint whimper, but when John peered down at him he saw that Sherlock's eyes were closed. His cheeks glistened with the remains of tears, his eyelashes damp with the threat of more, but it seemed that fatigue had won over. John let his head fall back against the pillow. He wasn't sure how Sherlock would react when they woke up, whether he would be back to his adult self or still in his little headspace. Not that it really mattered, but he would be more equipped to deal with a traumatized version of either Sherlock once he'd had a couple more hours of sleep. He drifted off quickly.

The third time he woke up, it was because of the pressing need of his bladder. Sherlock was still clinging to him, but with the art of long practice John was able to escape without waking Sherlock up, substituting a pillow for his body. He eased his way down the steps and into the loo, grimacing at the sight of his face in the mirror when he had the chance to look. There was a nice bruise on his jaw in a stunning shade of blue, and, when he twisted to the side and pulled his shirt up, several more dotted his hips and ribs. Normally he didn't like taking medication unless it was necessary, but he had the feeling he'd need it today. He took two more paracetamol with a glass of water.

"Bloody hell, I need to learn the art of falling off roofs without getting hurt," he muttered humourlessly, gingerly stretching his arms. His right arm in particular ached from where he'd landed on it, but hopefully the medication would kick in quickly. 

"Daddy!"

The sound of Sherlock's high-pitched, terrified voice sent John rushing back up the steps, even though it was agony. He made it to the bedroom door in time to collide with Sherlock. The impact was enough to make him yelp in pain, while Sherlock recoiled back and fell to the floor. John wrapped a protective arm around his midsection, gritting his teeth to avoid cursing. Obviously Sherlock was still feeling vulnerable, and John did his best not to swear around his little boy. Sherlock enjoyed repeating after him far too much, and the last thing he needed was another three hours of a four-year-old yelling curse words at the top of his lungs. John still wasn't sure whether the neighbours had forgiven them yet.

"I'm right here," John said once he was certain he could speak without groaning first. "I went downstairs for a minute."

"I thought you were gone," Sherlock whispered, eyes huge.

It wasn't difficult to figure out that _gone_ translated to _dead_. John held back a sigh, stepping closer and reaching down a hand to help Sherlock to his feet. "I was peeing," he said patiently, rubbing his thumb under Sherlock's eyes to smear away the evidence of fresh tears. "You know that Daddy doesn't leave the flat when you're feeling little. Do you remember why?"

There was a noticeable pause, and then finally Sherlock offered, "'Cause last time I exper'mented?" 

"That's right," John said, barely stifling a grin at the memory. A sugar high Sherlock would have been adorable, if it didn't mean hours of trying to entertain a hyperactive but bored child and then coaxing him down for a nap when he crashed.

"I like exper'mentin'," Sherlock said wistfully, tears forgotten.

"I know you do, baby." He passed his hand over the dark curls just once, then took Sherlock's hand and led him out of the room. Like this, Sherlock was much easier to feed. Though he was a terrifically picky eater, with very specific ideas about what he would and would not eat, he was also apt to inhale just about anything that he deemed acceptable. As opposed to adult Sherlock, who could have his favourite food be put down in front of him and still refuse to eat if he was otherwise occupied.

Sherlock sat down at the table without any prompting and John moved slowly around the kitchen, preparing tea (for him), milk (for Sherlock) and buttered toast (for both of them). It was a relief to sit down at the table and let his aching body rest for a moment. He sipped at his tea, watching as Sherlock carefully tore all of the crusts off a piece of toast before eating the middle. Knowing that it had been close to five days since Sherlock had consumed anything more than tea with a lot of sugar, it was good to see him actually eating something.

"Drink your milk, Sherlock," John added as Sherlock tore into a second piece of toast.

Sherlock blinked at his cup, then frowned. "Want my big boy cup."

"I think we should stick with your sippy cup today," John said, not willing to budge on this one even a little bit. He'd given in to Sherlock's big eyes and pleading just once before, letting him use one of the regular mugs they normally drank from. It had been a disaster. Sherlock spilled milk all over himself, the floor, and a piece of delicate evidence before John had the chance to rescue it. There was an unspoken agreement between them that sippy cups for uncoordinated little Sherlock were a must, but little Sherlock could get obsessed with being a big boy.

"But I want my big boy cup!" Sherlock whined, his voice picking up in volume.

John gave him a stern look. Normally he would have more patience. But he was tired and sore, and he wasn't in the mood to have a battle of logic with a four-year-old. "Sherlock Holmes, Daddy told you to drink your milk."

The affronted look on Sherlock's baby face would have been amusing at any time. Lower lip sticking out a good inch, Sherlock grabbed his cup and very slowly brought it to his mouth, tipping it just enough to let a small measure of milk flow into his mouth. He didn't swallow right away - another common tactic he employed, pretending that he was drinking when he really wasn't - but finally John saw his throat start to move. He must have been thirsty, because in less than two minutes he was lowering the empty cup back to the table. Even though there was no milk on his face, he still swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

In spite of himself, John had to smile. He felt a little guilty for being so sharp when Sherlock was obviously having just as hard a morning as he was. Partly as an apology, he got up and fetched the chocolate covered biscuits that Sherlock loved, setting them within easy reach when he sat back down. Sherlock's eyes lit up, all traces of an incoming strop gone, and he grabbed a fistful of biscuits with a happy sound. John took just one, biting the tip off and chewing slowly while he thought about what to say next.

"Did what happened last night scare you?" he asked at last.

His mouth stuffed too full of biscuit to reply, Sherlock nodded. His cheeks were adorably rounded.

"But you know that Daddy's okay, right?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, licking his lips. "But... But I dreamed it."

"I know. Dreams aren't real, though." John reached out, putting his hand on Sherlock's wrist. It was something he'd told himself countless times after watching Sherlock step off that bloody roof. Even now, the nature of their work meant there were nights he woke up drenched in cold sweat from nightmares about how a situation could have ended differently. He'd never thought that Sherlock might suffer from the same problem. Even as a child, Sherlock usually slept peacefully. How many nightmares had Sherlock hidden from him in the past?

"But I _dreamed_ it," Sherlock repeated, his cheeks flushing in distress.

"And it was scary," John murmured, squeezing his wrist gently. "I'm sorry you had bad dreams, baby, but nothing happened. Daddy's right here. And you know you can always wake me up if you need to, don't you?"

"Even if you're sleeping?"

"Even if I'm sleeping. I'm here for you, Sherlock, whenever you need me." This was probably a conversation they'd need to have again when Sherlock wasn't little, because John had no doubts that it would be a lot easier for Sherlock to seek comfort as a child than it would be for him to do so as an adult. He was too used to do things on his own.

"Okay," Sherlock said softly. He looked so miserable suddenly, even with biscuit crumbs on his chin and melting chocolate smeared on his fingers. John stood up again and grabbed a clean cloth, which he used to wipe Sherlock's face and hands. He cleaned up the table, then led Sherlock out to the sofa. 

"Sit down. Daddy will get your blankie, okay? And then we'll sit down and watch a movie together."

He left Sherlock sitting there, knowing that he could trust the little boy not to move, and made a quick trip upstairs to the bedroom. Sherlock's little things were hidden in the closet of their bedroom, where they were unlikely to be found during a routine drugs bust - not that Lestrade had been forced to stoop that low more than a handful of times, since John moved in, but it made Sherlock feel more comfortable to know that they were tucked away. If anyone else were to find out about this, John wasn't sure Sherlock would ever recover. 

He pulled the box out and took out Sherlock's blankie. It was patterned to look like a baby blanket, but large enough that it could cover Sherlock when he went down for a nap. A warm, pale yellow in colour, the border had been decorated with a pattern of fat little bees. The middle of the blanket depicted a family of larger bees having a picnic. He also grabbed Sherlock's teddy bear. Initially, he'd been surprised that Sherlock wanted a bear instead of a bee or something more interesting. But seeing how fiercely Sherlock clung to the teddy bear, which was light brown in colour with a purple scarf and big black eyes, he'd never had the heart to ask questions.

When he went back downstairs, John was pleased to see that Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa. Sherlock whined when he saw his blankie and his teddy bear and made grabbing motions with his hands. John chuckled, handing him the teddy bear first and watching as Sherlock seized it in a fierce hug. Still clinging to the bear with one hand, he snatched his blankie with the other and promptly rolled over, hiding his face and bear underneath the safety of the blanket. It wasn't something he did often, but it never ceased to be adorable. John smiled as he sank down onto the free end of the sofa, patting Sherlock's rump.

It was hard to find something child appropriate that wouldn't also make Sherlock cry from boredom. John finally settled on some cartoons and then opened up a magazine. He read for a little while, until Sherlock squirmed around on the sofa beside him and rolled over. His head came to a stop pillowed on John's thigh - his left, fortunately. Even in sleep, he was sucking on a corner of his blanket while clutching his teddy bear to his chest.

John wasn't surprised Sherlock had fallen back asleep, since neither of them had had the most restful night. But he did hope that Sherlock would be a little less cranky when he woke up. He turned the volume down on the telly and switched the channel to the news. It was hard to keep up with current events when they were working a case, but on occasion he learned a little bit of information that could prove helpful later on. Sherlock's expression was also hilarious when that happened.

The news ended without Sherlock waking, and a documentary of some sort came on. John watched it absently, his eyes half shut. One of his hands lightly scraped across Sherlock's scalp, soothing any possibility of nightmare before it began. He might have drifted into true sleep once or twice, but inevitably Sherlock would shift when the movement of his hand stopped and John would wake up again.

It would be an early night for both of them.

With that thought in mind, he shook Sherlock awake after the boy had slept for only a couple of hours. Sherlock grumbled, rubbing his eyes with his fists and sulking. He sat up when John prodded him, but leaned heavily against John's shoulder. "I'm tired."

"I know, but if you don't wake up now you won't sleep tonight," John replied, dropping a kiss onto the top of his head. "Daddy's tired too."

"Then sleep with me now."

John chuckled at that, shaking his head. "I don't think so, sweetheart. Daddy's an old man. He needs more than just a nap."

"You're not old," Sherlock protested.

"I'm afraid I am," John said ruefully, consciously keeping himself from touching his shoulder. It was true that he wasn't over the hill yet, but there were mornings when he felt like he was. The paracetamol had long since worn off, and he was feeling every bruise.

"No, you're not," Sherlock said stubbornly, as though will alone was enough to keep John young. "And you're not allowed to die. I decided."

"Oh you did, did you?" John asked, amused, carefully shifting out from under Sherlock's weight. He walked into the loo for the medication, calling over his shoulder, "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I don't think that's how it works."

"Yes it is!"

"No, it's not."

"Yes it _is_ ," Sherlock said, popping his head up over the arm of the sofa just as John came back into the room. His hair was messy from his nap, the curls standing on edge. "You're my daddy. You belong to me. That means you can't die until I say you can, and you can't."

Sherlock looked so serious that John fought back the urge to laugh. "I appreciate that, love," he said, swallowing the pills dry. If this was how Sherlock wanted to cope with the events of last night, John wasn't going to tell him otherwise. For one thing, it was just too cute. 

"Good," Sherlock said with a decisive nod, rubbing his eyes again. "Daddy, I want to play."

"Stay here. I'll go get some of your toys."

That meant another trip up the steps, and John intended to make it the last until they retired to bed for the night, so this time he fetched a few toys and what they would need for Sherlock's bath after dinner. Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa when he came back down, blankie spread across his lap and teddy bear tucked in close to his side. He accepted the toys John had selected, waiting until John had sat down before he opened up a box.

They played a game together for a couple of hours - Sherlock's newest obsession was a game with a bunch of coloured blocks that had different symbols on them, and the goal was to make rows or columns of matching blocks - before John's back grew too sore to accommodate the position. He cleaned up the blocks and left Sherlock to play by himself with a puzzle while he went to call for a take away.

By the time that supper arrived, Sherlock was definitely starting to wane. The nap had seen him through playtime, but he fussed when John had to go downstairs to retrieve the Chinese food and his eyes were filled with tears by the time John came back. John sighed, setting the bag containing the food down and sweeping him into a huge hug.

"Sherlock, you know you can't be with me all the time," John said into that messy black hair, brushing another kiss against Sherlock's forehead. He felt more than saw Sherlock take a quivery breath. "I'm not going to disappear just because I'm out of your sight. Remember, you said I wasn't allowed to die. So unless you've suddenly changed your mind and decided you don't want Daddy around anymore..."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, but he refused to smile even when John tickled him, instead swatting at John's hands and whining quietly. John cajoled him into eating a little bit of orange chicken and fried rice, but eventually Sherlock threw down his fork and started making the soft, throaty sounds that were the prelude to a full on meltdown.

It was then that John faced facts: no amount of coaxing, bribery or threats was going to be enough to overcome a cranky, overtired toddler. His own appetite having waned, he set aside the remainder of the food in the refrigerator and hustled Sherlock into the loo for a bath. Predictably, the moment Sherlock saw the bathtub he started to complain.

"I don't wanna take a bath!"

"You have to," John told him.

"No bath!"

"Yes bath." Stepping past him, John knelt and switched the bathtub on. He added a generous dose of bubble bath and changed the temperature until it was just this side of too hot. When he turned around again, Sherlock was gone.

"Goddamnit," John muttered, tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. He loved Sherlock. He really did. Whether he was an adult or a little boy, Sherlock was his whole world. But there were times when Sherlock tried the very last of his patience, and this was one of those times.

He slowly stood up and hobbled out the door, wincing. Sherlock was hiding behind the sofa. John stopped in the doorway and folded his arms. 

"Sherlock Holmes, I am tired. I am not in the mood to play any games. You're being a very bad boy, and you know what happens to little boys when they're bad."

The top of Sherlock's head moved a bit as he winced and tried to curl up into a smaller ball, but there wasn't enough space for him to hide entirely. John scowled and didn't say anything for a moment, taking a few much needed seconds to get a handle on his temper. Sometimes Sherlock really pushed him to the breaking point. As adorable as Sherlock could be as a child, sometimes he was just as exasperating as his adult self in a lot of ways. The temptation to walk over there and put Sherlock over his knee for being a bad boy was pretty strong. It would make for a bath time filled with teary sulking, but John had done it before and no doubt would need to do it again.

But he kept in mind how awful the past day had been and decided to allow his little boy some leeway. Remembering how tightly Sherlock had gripped him when John first stepped onto the rooftop, John softened. His anger drained away as quickly as it had come, and when he spoke it was with a much more gentle tone. "Sherlock, darling, you know that you need a bath before you go to bed. If you come out right now and get into the bath without a fuss, Daddy will read you three stories instead of one. And he'll go to bed at the same time as you."

Very slowly, two blue-grey eyes appeared over the top of the sofa. "Really?"

"Yes, really," John said patiently, not letting on that it had always been his intent to retire at the same time as Sherlock. He was just too bloody tired to stay up any longer. He smiled with relief as Sherlock edged out from behind the sofa and allowed John to take his hand and lead him back down the hall to the loo.

Without any fuss, Sherlock stripped off his clothes and climbed into the bath. He sank down into the water with a quiet sigh, looking as exhausted as John felt. John perched on the edge of the tub and set down a couple of toys: a yellow rubber duck that wore a pirate hat and an eye patch, and a bright purple octopus that clutched a sword in one of its tentacles. They bobbed about on the water, nearly hidden by the bubbles, but Sherlock made no move to grab them. Normally he loved to play once he was actually in the bath, often begging for just a few more minutes, but tonight he looked at the toys with lacklustre enthusiasm. 

"Don't you want to play?" John asked, pouring some soap into a cloth and lathering it up.

"No," Sherlock said, swatting a hand against the yellow duck and sending it skittering across the tub into the side.

"That wasn't very nice. I bet you hurt his feelings."

"It's a rubber duck. They don't have feelings," Sherlock replied, though he didn't sound very convinced.

John leaned down and began scrubbing the cloth down Sherlock's right arm while he contemplated his answer. Sherlock had a vivid imagination, but sometimes it was tricky figuring out how best to appeal to it. "I don't know about that. Your duck looked very lonely on the shelf before we brought him home. And he always seems so happy to see you. Just look at him now."

Sherlock followed his gaze as he submitted his left arm to a thorough cleaning. The duck had tipped over on its side, and its eye patch had slipped down around its neck. "I don't feel like playing."

"I understand. It's been a long day. But why don't you at least fix his eye patch?" John coaxed, moving on to Sherlock's midsection.

"Don't wanna," Sherlock mumbled, but he snaked an arm out and grabbed the duck anyway. Carefully, he fixed the eye patch back into place. He held the duck for a moment longer, looking into the one visible brown eye. Then he suddenly scooped up his octopus, clutching both of his toys against his chest. "Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"What if I wake up tomorrow and my toys are gone?"

The movement of the cloth against Sherlock's left leg stopped as John processed the question. What Sherlock wasn't asking - _what if I wake up tomorrow and_ you _are gone?_ \- was as clear as day. "Sherlock, that's not going to happen. Your toys will still be here when you wake up."

"But how do you _know_ How do you know something won't happen while I'm asleep?" Sherlock asked, his fingers white where he gripped his toys. The duck let out a pitiful squeak.

"I know because your toys would never leave you behind," John told him firmly, willing Sherlock to believe him. "Wherever those toys go, you go. So if something happens, it won't be a big deal because you'll be right there to see what's going on." He shifted, resuming scrubbing. "Baby, we are perfectly safe in this flat. Nothing is going to happen to us in here. And even when we leave, all we can do is take it one day at a time, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock mumbled, though he didn't lessen his grip on his toys. He let John wash his hair without complaint, and while he normally wanted to dry himself off, tonight he stood by as docile as a lamb and let John do it. 

It was worrying, but John wasn't sure what to do about it. He wasn't equipped to deal with discussing the possibility of death with another adult, never mind a four-year-old. Considering the dangerous line of their work, he was amazed that it was bothering Sherlock as much as it was. He hoped that it was just last night's close brush, but those kinds of questions were something that would have to wait until Sherlock was ready to be an adult again. Besides, he was far too tired for this tonight.

He led Sherlock up the stairs into the bedroom, with just a quick stop to turn off the telly and pick up Sherlock's teddy bear and blankie. Sherlock scooted under the covers, toys still in hand, only with his teddy bear and blankie now added to the mix. John dressed and then joined him with the promised three books. Unsurprisingly, he only got through one book before Sherlock was passed out, half-turned away from him and drooling on a corner of his blankie.

"Silly boy," John said to him affectionately, brushing a stray curl off Sherlock's forehead. He set the books aside, shifted the octopus so that a plastic sword wasn't jabbing him in the ribs, and then settled down for what would hopefully be a good night's sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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